


Of Accusations, Investigations, and Storms

by TheReluctantShipper



Series: Pet Wizard [4]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assault, Canon Rewrite, Injury, Investigations, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-16 18:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18526795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper
Summary: Marcone asks me to find Tommy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton's murderer.I deliver. In spades.





	1. Accusations

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of The Dresden Files, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.
> 
> \- Thanks to the Sister Husbands, who are my best friends in the whole world, and happen to be gracious enough to also beta most of my works for me. I don't know what I'd do without you girls, but I certainly wouldn't be doing this.
> 
> \- You can come see me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thereluctantshipper) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/TheReluctantSh1?s=09) if me sharing fan edits and bitching about writer's block floats your boat.
> 
> \- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them.
> 
> \- Quick note before you read: I'm not going to reiterate big parts of the plot of _Storm Front_ in this story. I'm going to assume that if you're reading this story, you've read _Storm Front,_ and if you haven't, shame on you, go read it right now! Or, if you prefer, I can attest to the delight that is James Marsters reading it to you through the audiobooks. *fans self* Anyway, I'm going to focus mainly on how this story diverges from _Storm Front,_ mainly in that Harry isn't a professional PI, doesn't get hired by Monica Sells, and how he finds his answers elsewhere.
> 
> \- This is also probably the last time I'll go in-depth into one of the canon stories for this series. I had to do so much double-checking, lol. This is why I write AUs.
> 
> \- Feedback is life.

I deliberately got to the crime scene at The Madison about twenty minutes before Marcone was going to be there. The tone of his voice when he’d called, all tight control and leashed fury, had tipped me off that something unusual was going on. I wanted to get a look around before he arrived.

One of the detectives my boss had in his pocket recognized me immediately and let me through the yellow tape without a fuss. Emergency personnel were crawling all over the place. Their faces were either set in grim, determined lines or they were pale, a little green around the gills.

_ So it’s bad, then. _

I wanted to get an impression of the crime scene without Marcone there for a couple of reasons. First, Marcone made people nervous. Little wonder, the guy is one of the most powerful people in Chicago, and he’s really not shy about using his laser stare or throwing his weight around (albeit politely) to get results. That kind of tension was going to make anyone there on the scene less likely to talk to me.

The other issue was Marcone’s  _ rage. _ He has this  _ thing _ about taking care of his people, and another thing about his control and power being challenged. Whoever murdered Tommy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton had pushed both buttons in one fell swoop. Heads were gonna roll.

If Marcone was going to be standing next to me, he was probably going to mess with my ability to read the energies in the room. Someone like Marcone, someone with so much genuine influence on the world around him, is pumping out some crazy vibes all the time. There was a chance that it wouldn’t affect the magical signatures at all, but there was an equal chance that it would blow my ability to decipher them all to hell.

So I went early.

Murphy, standing just outside the door of the hotel room, frowned when she saw me. When the rumors that I’d been hired by Marcone had reached her, she’d confronted me about what a scumbag Marcone was, how I shouldn’t be working for him, about how it went against everything I should be standing for. How she didn’t know how I could stand to work for a guy like Marcone and still sleep at night, in a bed paid for by the mob.

Now, look, I’m not saying Murphy isn’t tough. She’s worked and clawed her way up to Lieutenant of the CPD. She can kick my ass in at least eight different ways, and she’s one hell of a markswoman. She’s gone toe to toe with a lot of life’s toughest problems and come out swinging.

But Murphy doesn’t  _ get _ it. She doesn’t get the indignity of homelessness, of being well and truly poor. She’s never gone hungry because she had no food  _ and _ no money, never been unable to sleep because it was so cold and the shivering  _ just wouldn’t stop. _ Murphy has a family, and even if they don’t always get along, they’ll always take her in when push comes to shove. She knows it, hell, she’s  _ told _ me.

Murphy’s never been a poor, hungry, homeless orphan. She’s never had to make the choice to bend a few rules to be taken care of or to hope that her principles kept her warm at night. She doesn’t  _ get _ it. I don’t want her to, really, and I don’t hold it against her, but she  _ doesn’t. _

Neither of us budged, and eventually, we reached an impasse. She knew that I was still her best hope of solving cases that seemed to involve the supernatural, and I didn’t want to stop helping her. I just didn’t mention Marcone, and neither did she, unless absolutely necessary, and we got along mostly fine.

Murph’s a little colder these days, but I understand, so I let it go. We may never be best friends, but when it gets down to the wire, I’ll have her back every time.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, pretty blue eyes narrowing. “I haven’t called you yet.”

I tried a winning smile. “My, uh,  _ other _ boss asked me to take a look around.”

Her eyes narrowed further.  _ Whoops. _

“Well, I guess, then, as long as you have ‘approval,’ and your name’s not on  _ my  _ report,” she said stiffly.

“Hey, c’mon, Murph-”

“And why do you always look like an extra in a bad Western?” she snapped. “I hate that coat.”

I looked down at my black canvas duster. I  _ liked _ my duster, dammit. I was wearing a white t-shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of sneakers underneath it. It was as professional as I was willing to look, quite frankly.

“Aw, you don’t like it?”

_ “Don’t _ test me, Dresden,” she growled.

Before we could pick at one another any more, Murphy’s partner, Carmichael, stepped out of the lobby and onto the street. He was a short, rumpled man with food on his tie and an absolutely razor sharp mind.

He sneered when he saw me. “Dresden,” he spat. “What are you doing here?”

I pasted on my smile again. “Just here to lend a hand, Carmichael.”

His face darkened further and he snapped his fingers in the air as if he’d just figured something out.  _ “Right, _ Tommy was one of your boss’ boys, wasn’t he?”

I shrugged easily. “A body is a body. We all want to catch the bad guy.”

Carmichael gave an ugly snort. “Yeah, but some of us want to  _ arrest _ him and some of us want to send him to sleep with the fish.”

“Oh, a mob joke.  _ Very _ original-”

_ “Enough,” _ Murphy snapped,  _ “both _ of you. This is where someone  _ died. _ Have some damn respect.”

Carmichael and I continued to glare at one another. He thought I was a con man, and I thought he was a jerk. It didn’t bother me that he thought I was lying, a  _ lot _ of people thought I was lying. Hell, I thought even  _ Marcone _ had trouble believing me half the time. Carmichael was just an ass about it, which I didn’t appreciate.

But I was more scared of Murph’s wrath than I was irritated by her partner’s scorn. Murphy could and would, probably with great glee, beat the shit out of me.

Instead, I turned to Murphy and waved a hand to the door. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”

With another stink-eye for each of us, she led us into the hotel, into carnage and death and the blackest of magic.

Marcone sends me to the  _ nicest _ places.

* * *

My jaw was clenched so hard it ached as I stepped out of The Madison and onto the street fifteen minutes later. I hadn’t thrown up, but it was still damned close. It  was a shit thing to do on Murphy and Carmichael’s part, sending me into that blood-soaked room without any warning whatsoever, but I got it. Sort of. Enough to not yell or throw things, at least.  I was shaken up, though, and every radio in a five-block radius was probably useless now.

Murphy followed me out. Her body language wasn’t apologetic, really, but it was subdued. She knew I was angry, and while she wasn’t sorry, she was ready to take her lumps.

I thought about letting out some of the roiling, furious, sickening emotions swirling in my belly onto her, but I sighed heavily instead.  _ Hell’s bells. _ I can’t ever stay mad at Murphy for long, and this was no exception. There’s no way to prepare someone for a scene like that, there just isn’t. Maybe she could have braced me a little, but considering our rocky standing, I wasn’t going to hold it against her.

“Do you think you can figure out who did it?” Her voice was guarded, careful.

I shrugged and wiped my mouth hard in an attempt to control the urge to heave. “I don’t know. Maybe? Probably.”

“That was so very concise,” Murphy said dryly.

I discreetly flipped her the bird. She laughed. It made me feel a little better.

“I can figure out  _ how, _ at least, which should narrow down the  _ who _ even further.”

“Do you already have a list of suspects?”

“There aren’t a lot of wizards out there with that kind of power,” I explained. “Once I figure out how, I can figure out who has the kind of finesse and experience to pull this kind of thing off.” I shrugged again. “I’ll have to be careful, keep a low profile. Might take me a day or two, but I don’t see why a copy of the report I end up with couldn’t make its way to you somehow.”

She cocked a golden eyebrow. “That won’t piss your boss off?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” It wasn’t a  _ lie, _ per se, but very little went on that didn’t get back to Marcone, especially with his creepy stalker tendencies. I wasn’t worried. The police investigation, as slow as they tended to be, wouldn’t interfere with my own poking around. That’s all Marcone cared about.

Murphy frowned a little. “Is  _ he _ why you have to lay low?”

_ Aw. _ Murph was worried about me. That was kind of cute, though I’d rather get shot in the foot than say that to her face. She couldn’t turn off the innate protector, the guardian that rested in her soul. Even if she was mad at me, she couldn’t help but be concerned.

It was one of the reasons I’d always come if she called.

I shook my head. “Nah. White Council’s not real keen on suspected warlocks studying dark magic. Don’t want to make the bunch of jerks any jumpier than they already are.”

It was an understatement. The White Council, despite the uneasy alliance that we’d garnered by mutually ignoring one another, was  _ not _ going to like me looking into how to murder people with thaumaturgy. I’d have to careful as hell if I didn’t want to find myself on trial for these deaths. A short trial. Very short, ending with my head on the ground somewhere.

_ This day just keeps getting better. _

“You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?” she asked.

I gave her an easy smile that still didn’t feel quite right. “Aw, Murph. I’ll be all right.”

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up.” Her lips were pursed, but I saw a smile lurking there. She jerked her chin. “Get out of here if you don’t need anything else from the scene.”

The mention of the grisly deaths chased away any good humor I’d managed to build up. Instead of saying anything else, I gave her a nod, shoved my hands into my duster pockets, and turned on my heel to make my way down the sidewalk to where I’d left the Blue Beetle.

As I walked, I tried to think.

The deaths were brutal and perverse. I thought that I’d probably only seen Tommy Tomm in the background a few times, maybe met him once. Most of the people in Marcone’s organization weren’t  _ good _ people, not as high up on the food chain as Tommy Tomm was, anyway, but I didn’t believe that  _ anyone _ deserved to die like that.

It also  _ pissed me off _ that someone would use magic like that. Magic is the essence of  _ life, _ of  _ emotion. _ Bob doesn't really  _ get _ human morality, so it doesn’t bother him quite as much as it bothers me, but I  _ love _ magic. I love it, and it’s a force of  _ light. _ That someone would take magic, something so powerful and good and so important to me, and twist it into something dark and evil and use it against those defenseless against it, it infuriated me.

I needed to talk to Bob. I needed to better understand the skill level, the amount of training and knowledge the perpetrator would need to have to perform the spell I’d just seen. I had some ideas, but Bob has impressed upon me time and time again that I’m the magical equivalent of a toddler. I had a basic understanding of the way magic worked, but that didn’t mean that I actually  _ knew _ what it would-

My thought was cut off as a big hand with an iron grip took hold of my elbow and swung me into a shadowy alley between two buildings a few blocks away from the hotel. I gave a terribly manly (no, really) squawk as I was yanked out of the street.

“Dresden,” a deep, hostile voice growled, and because I am contrary by nature  _ and _ I recognized my captor, I relaxed and turned to face him as he finished pulling me into the alley.

Warden Donald Morgan was a bulldog of a man. His face was hard and worn, blunt features set in a mask of dislike and suspicion. His clothes were sturdy, serviceable, and nondescript, outside of his grey Warden’s cloak and the scabbard that hung at his waist, presumably housing the sword each Warden carries.

Morgan probably wouldn’t outright kill me, hence my relaxation, but he sure as hell wanted to.

“Donnie,” I said genially, so I could watch his eye twitch, “what are you doing in my town? Without any sort of warning? Or reason to be here?”

“There has been black magic performed in the city where a known warlock resides,” he growled. “The Wardens thought it prudent to look into the matter.”

I glared, my hackles immediately up. “Hey, buddy. That’s  _ suspected _ warlock to you. And I didn’t kill anyone!”

“We shall see. But  _ I _ know you did this, and when I reveal that you are behind the murders, the Council will finally give me the authorization to mete out justice as it is deserved.”

I yanked at my arm, but he held fast. “I agree!” I said cheerfully. “On the  _ warlock. _ Who  _ isn’t me.” _

Morgan’s grip was starting to ache, but I stopped struggling. I’ve been in fights with guys bigger than me, and I knew to wait for my opening.

“I do not believe that Justin DuMorne’s apprentice is innocent of any crime,” Morgan said in that firm way of someone who Knows He Is Right. “You may have fooled the Council, boy, but I  _ will _ find the proof that you have broken the First Law this time, and I  _ will _ make you answer for it.”

I rolled my eyes, which belied the way my belly was quivering. Look, douchebag or not, Morgan has been tracking down bad guys and hacking their heads off for  _ centuries, _ and he’s got a really big sword to do it with. He’s scary.

“Yes,” I said, false bravado ringing in my voice, “I, a sixteen-year-old boy, deceived the great White Council of Wizardry. I, who had barely gotten my driver’s license at the time, was capable of the things you found Justin guilty of, and was  _ also _ capable of covering my tracks.” Morgan was furious. He opened his mouth to interrupt, but I spoke over him.  _ “And _ I have been continuing his work, somehow  _ again _ concealing my studies of black magic from the Council.” I gave him a sharp, bitter smile. “How am I doing,  _ Warden?” _

“We should have taken your head at sixteen,” he sneered.

“Excuse me,” an ice-cold voice said from behind me, “did you just imply that you would be willing to behead a  _ child?” _

_ Oh shit, _ I thought, disproportionately pleased.

“Hiya, Marcone.”

“Mr. Dresden.” My boss’ voice was smooth, polite, and so frigid I thought his teeth must ache.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Morgan said through clenched teeth.

“On the contrary,” Marcone said evenly, somehow managing to convey disapproval at the same time, “Mr. Dresden works for me, and I must object rather strenuously to anyone threatening his life. Additionally, I have strong opinions about having someone who would murder a child roaming about my city. So you must accept my apologies, but I rather think this concerns me greatly.”

It was fascinating to watch the emotions play out across Morgan’s face. Anger, defiance, and an appearance by what I liked to call the Dresden Vein, a pumping vein in Morgan’s forehead that always seemed to grow in my presence. It’s nice to be appreciated.

“Warden Morgan,” I said sweetly. “Meet Gentleman Johnny Marcone. Marcone, this is Donald Morgan, a Warden of the White Council.”

Morgan blinked. It was just for a moment, but it was enough of a hesitation to confirm my suspicion that Marcone probably had an entire file dedicated to him somewhere. Powerful mortals are worth paying attention to, and Marcone doubly so.

Morgan scowled again (his face was gonna stick like that one of these days).  _ “Dresden! _ He is a  _ mortal!” _ He punctuated the words by taking my other arm in his other hand and giving me a hard shake, rattling my teeth together and almost pulling me off of my feet.

“Warden Morgan,” somehow the title sounded like an insult when Marcone said it, “I insist that you take your hands from Mr. Dresden’s person. He is under my protection, and if you know who I am, you know how seriously I take that responsibility.”

Morgan’s face twisted further into anger, and his hands on my arms tightened more for only a second before he abruptly let me go and took a step away from me. Adrenaline, and no small part pure stubbornness, had been keeping me on my feet to that point, so I had to lock my knees and brace myself a little to stay standing.

Morgan glared at a spot just between my eyes, which I was more than a little grateful for. I wanted to soulgaze with Donald Morgan about as much as I wanted to cheese grate my entire left arm off.  _ Slowly. _

Morgan jabbed a finger into the air just in front of my face. It was more animated than I’d seen him in a long time. Marcone must have thrown him off of his game.

“We should have put the Doom on you,” the big Warden boomed. “I’m going to prove that this is your doing, and the Council will pass the proper judgement on you at last.”

I just smirked and gave him a jaunty little wave. “Bye, Donnie! We  _ have _ to do this again sometime! I do so miss our banter!”

With another sneer, Morgan turned on his heel and stalked down the alley. He walked past Marcone, who didn’t move so much as one iota to get out of the Warden’s way. Morgan didn’t touch him or Hendricks on the way back onto the sidewalk, but mere inches were between them.

As soon as Morgan was gone, turned down the sidewalk to go brood wherever it is that crazy, paranoid bastards (who aren’t me, anyway) go to do so, my adrenaline gave out and I barely managed to slide to the ground onto my knees and lean back against a rough brick wall instead of landing on my face and leaning against the ground. With my face.

The shock of the crime scene had been bad enough, but coupled with the confrontation with a man who had been the bane of my existence for more than ten years, it was enough to make anyone a little woozy. Morgan had been the only one who had been so vehemently against letting me go (although by the time I knew that, I’d been long gone). He’d been convinced that I was a mastermind, some sort of unholy terror who had somehow deceived wizards five times my age into believing that I was an innocent teenager. He seemed to delight in turning up whenever anything  _ remotely _ fishy was going on and immediately blame me. Since I refused to have much to do with the White Council, I had no idea if any of his ranting and raving had ever gained any traction. I could only hope that they could see that he was crazy and not vote to behead me at the first available chance.

_ My life is so weird. _

I realized that my eyes had slid closed when a shuffling sound was the only warning I had that someone was getting closer. I didn’t open them, because if Marcone wanted to shoot me I was just about worn out enough to let him. Instead, I felt a warm, surprisingly calloused hand tilt my chin up.

“Mr. Dresden?”

“Hmm?” The touch was nice, soothing, somehow. Maybe I was touch-starved. I should invite Susan over to cuddle or something. Bob would get a kick out of it, at least.

“Harry!”

The tone of Marcone’s voice told me that he had probably said my name more than once during my mental meandering, so I forced my eyes open to look at his. He didn’t look  _ worried, _ per se, because Marcone is a man who does not look worried  _ ever, _ but his green eyes were serious when they met mine and he was studying me intently.

“What?”

“What is wrong with you?”

I shrugged, but didn’t move my face from his hand. He, interestingly enough, also didn’t move his hand away from my face. I filed that away for later.

“Tired. Long day, took a psychic hit at the crime scene. ‘S just the icing on the cake, running into my old buddy Don here.”

His eyes narrowed. “‘Psychic hit?’”

I waved my hand. “It was definitely magic that took out Tommy Tomm. It leaves a sort of… Residue, or an imprint. It’s like taking a knock to the head, but I’m fine.”

He stiffened infinitesimally, such a small change that I only noticed because we were so close to one another. His gaze was steady on mine, and part of me was basking in the eye contact despite the circumstances. Sure, the guy’s an over-controlling nut who’s also a mob boss, but a wizard doesn’t get to be choosy when it comes to eye contact.

“You’ll be able to investigate?” he asked. “You’ll find who did this?”

“That’s what you pay me for.” When his expression didn’t change, I just nodded. “Yeah. I can find ‘em.”

He nodded back once and relaxed, another shift so subtle it was almost unnoticeable. Then he looked at me hard and pursed his lips.

“What is the ‘Doom?’”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“The Warden who was manhandling you. He said they should have ‘put the Doom’ on you. What does that mean?”

I spent approximately half of one millisecond debating on whether or not I should tell Marcone the truth. One the one hand, the White Council didn’t really need any more reasons to come after me. I was treading on paper-thin ice as it was. On the other hand, they also really hadn’t done anything to earn extra loyalty from me.

(I don’t actually have a problem with the Council, by the way. I just don’t feel the need to go hang out, help out, or learn from any other wizards. I have Bob and Mortimer for that, and neither of them has ever conspired to behead me, either.)

(That I know of, anyway.)

On the other  _ other _ hand, this was Marcone. Who knew what he’d do with the knowledge? His pathological need to provide for his employees may or may not extend to making sure I didn’t lose my head because of a false accusation.

Finally, I’d never told anyone how close I came to kneeling next to my old mentor with a bag over my head. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

All of that flashed through my head, and then my mouth fell open and the truth came tumbling out.

“The Doom of Damocles,” I said, voice flat. “It’s the White Council’s version of probation. It’s not used often, since they prefer executing their problems. Basically, if someone is suspected of breaking one of the Laws of magic, or if someone does it with a reasonable excuse, instead of beheading them, they get the Doom put on them. A Warden takes a ‘special interest’ in that wizard, and if they break one of the Laws again, they execute them without hesitation.” I waved my hands a little in the air. “Big fun.”

There was something fiery in his eyes, but he showed no outward sign of emotion. “He also said something about you being sixteen?”

I shrugged. “C’mon, John. We both know that you know how I grew up.”

“No,” he said softly. “There is a… Gap. You were in the foster system until you were ten, but after that, there’s no record of you until you started working at the hotel.”

_ Huh. _ So there  _ was _ a limit to what Marcone’s resources could dig up. I had wondered how much he knew, especially since the only time I’d ever really been able to surprise him was with actual magic. Nothing I had ever unwittingly revealed had ever made him bat an eye.

“I ended up with a bad guy,” I told him. “A warlock. I got him before he got me, but I was his apprentice. Nobody really believes that he  _ didn’t _ teach me black magic.”

“Did he?” Marcone wasn’t really the type of person who pulled his punches, conversational or otherwise.

“No, I think he was… Saving it. For when he was surer of me, surer of my power, maybe.”

Marcone eyed me levelly. “I doubt it’s as simple as that.”

No. Of course it wasn’t. That synopsis, only a few sentences, couldn’t encompass the strange, quasi-hell my teenage years had been. The loneliness, the abuse, the desperate, awful desire for Justin’s approval. The fiery, intense, all-consuming  _ thing _ I had with Elaine. The slow, horrifying realization that no matter how devoted I was, Justin was not as he seemed.

I snorted. “What is?” I shook my head. “Let me up. I have research to do.”

Marcone slid smoothly to his feet, which highlighted how freaking awkward I looked as I scrambled to mine.

His eyes glittered with amusement, even if it showed nowhere else on his face. “You’ll go home first,” he said, all authority and no doubt that his orders would be followed, “and rest. You’re of no use to anyone if you run yourself into the ground.”

“I’m fine,” I protested automatically.

He just raised an imperious eyebrow. “Rest, Mr. Dresden. You’ll find the killer tomorrow.”

“Hopefully, anyway,” I grunted as I made my way to the street again.

Marcone just hummed. “I have faith, Harry. You’ll find whoever is responsible.”

I frowned as I stepped into the sunlight. I turned to make some sarcastic remark, or maybe to question what the hell gave him the idea that I was  _ nearly _ that reliable, but he was already striding away, Hendricks on his tail.

“‘Gentleman’ my ass.”


	2. Investigations

I  _ did _ go home, but because  _ I _ wanted to, not because Marcone told me to.

Really. Honest.

After a twelve hour nap and eating about thirty pounds of food, I was ready to get down to business. Which resulted in me sitting on the floor of my living room with my new-to-me coffee table covered in notebook paper.

I’d been working almost all night with Bob, who was sitting on the only clear corner of the table, and it felt like we were going in circles.

“I’m telling you, a ritual is the only way it’s feasible,” I argued. “If neither of us can think of anyone powerful enough to pull this off, which we  _ can’t,  _ it’s gotta be a ritual.”

“And  _ I’m _ telling  _ you,” _ Bob retorted, “that the chances of it being a ritual are  _ nil. _ Rituals are a  _ bitch _ to do. You know it as well as I do.”

I deflated and let my head fall forward to thunk against the table. I  _ did _ know. Rituals were a pain in the ass because people, by and large, sucked. I was grasping at straws to explain the murders of Tomy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton.

I knew that  _ I _ could kill a person using the spell I’d finally figured out. However, not only did I know that I hadn’t done it, but I also knew that I could only have done it to  _ one person. _ I’ve got some pretty stout magical muscle, and Bob says I’m only going to get stronger as I age, but it probably would have quite literally killed me to use that much magic on  _ two _ people.

So how the fuck was someone doing it?

“C’mon, kiddo,” Bob said, “read the facts again.”

It was a common phrase from Bob. When I’d run away, I had been angry, scared, arrogant. I’d had a lot of difficulties separating my emotions from whatever exercise Bob had been putting me through. He’d solved the problem by forcing me into the habit of listing only cold, hard fact out loud. It didn’t help  _ every _ time, but it helped most of the time.

“Tommy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton were murdered mid-coitus using thaumaturgy,” I said obediently.

“What a way to  _ go,” _ Bob said dreamily.

I ignored him. “Whoever did it either  _ is _ immensely powerful or has  _ access _ to immense power. They probably had some sort of relationship with one or both of the victims, considering the amount of hate someone would need to get the spell done. Not to mention they’d have to have hair or blood or something.”

“Is that a  _ fact, _ or is it conjecture?” Bob asked.

I growled. “Conjecture! It’s freaking conjecture, it’s  _ all _ conjecture! Hell’s bells, Bob, what am I missing?”

“Boss,” the skull said firmly, “maybe you should take a break, clear your head.”

“I-”

I didn’t want to take a break. I wanted to find whatever sicko did this and put them down. I wanted to find the culprit and shove their guilt into Morgan’s stupid, condescending face. I wanted to get whatever magic user powerful and stupid enough to throw magic like this around the hell out of my city.

I cut myself off and ran a hand down my face. “You could be right,” I muttered.

“Go take a walk, get some food, grab a pretty girl. Or a pretty boy! Go live a little!”

* * *

I didn’t take all of Bob’s suggestions, mostly because Bob is a pervert who thinks I have way more game than I actually do. But food that I didn’t have to put together sounded good, and so did one of Mac’s ales.

So after a quick shower, I dressed in another t-shirt and a clean pair of jeans, pulled on my sneakers and my duster, made sure I had enough magical instruments on me to defend myself, and walked out the door.

It was a long walk to McAnally’s Pub, but I let the cool air put a pep in my step. The city had the just-washed feeling that comes after every heavy storm, and it helped clear the cobwebs from my head. I carefully didn’t think of anything in particular, not wanting to get bogged down again. The only thing I left myself consider was stepping over the puddles on the sidewalk.

Which was probably why the vampire caught me by surprise. (At least, that’s what I was going to tell myself.)

I was watching the streetlamps’ light reflect wildly off of the rippling sidewalk puddles when, for the second time that day, someone grabbed my arm and yanked me between two buildings. This person was, unbelievably, even  _ less _ considerate than Morgan had been. I was slammed face-first into a wall and my nose exploded in pain so huge and sharp that stars danced in my vision. An arm pressed against my shoulder blades kept me pinned.

To actually pin me against a wall, considering my six-and-a-half-foot-and-some-change frame, you have to have one of two things: leverage, or a  _ lot _ of strength. It was hard to tell for sure, but there just aren’t that many people who are tall enough to get leverage on me, so I was betting on some sort of supernatural strength.

“Bianca wants to pass along a message, wizard,” a smooth, low voice said behind me.

A vampire then. Ha, I was right.

I knew about Bianca only vaguely through rumor mills. She was a vampire with influence, relatively stable in her power base. She ran the Velvet Room, a high-end brothel. Marcone considered her competition, but until he was completely comfortable with his control over the city, he didn’t want to make a move against her.

So why the hell was she having me mugged in an alleyway?

The vamp grabbed me and yanked so it was my back against the wall instead. He was shorter than me (of course), but he was still over six feet tall. He had sandy blonde hair, dark eyes, and harshly handsome features. Every line of his body was sensually built, strong and lovely.

The guy was hot, for sure, but was definitely a vampire, too. I told my libido to shut it so I could pay attention.

The man's face was twisted in a snarling smirk. “The Red Court does not tolerate meddling wizards killing humans who are  _ ours,” _ he sneered.

Before I could retort, he was lunging for me. I barely had time to flinch to the side, dodging his attack. It sent both of us tumbling over a couple of trash cans, and managed to give me the few seconds I needed to pull my pentacle out from beneath my t-shirt, send my will into it, and hold it out in front of me as the vampire advanced again. White, brilliant light spilled from the amulet in my hand and lit the alley as brightly as if it had been a sunny day.

The vampire gave an unholy, haunting screech. He immediately flailed back, hands raising to protect his face, but it wasn’t enough. The skin on his palms began to sizzle and fall away, revealing black, leathery flesh beneath. Between his fingers, I could see the same thing happening to his face. It was horrible, but I was kind of fascinated. I’d never seen a Red Court vampire’s true form, and as ugly and terrible as it was, I was still kind of geeking out.

The vampire hissed again and turned to flee. He clearly hadn’t expected me to know how to defend myself, or to know that  _ any _ article of faith would repel a vampire of the Red Court.

_ Ha, _ I thought sourly.  _ Not as easy to kill as they thought. _

“Hey!” I snapped, lacing enough authority in my voice to make me think of Marcone.

The vampire stopped his retreat, but didn’t turn around. That suited me just fine.

“Tell Bianca that I didn’t murder them,” I said quickly, “Tommy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton. It wasn’t me.”

The vamp turned just enough to eye me warily. His skin seemed to be regrowing now, but it was still an eerie sight. “You are the only one in the city with enough power to do it,” he spat. “We all know that.”

_ We? Who’s we? _

“Well, I didn’t,” I said firmly, “but I’m going to find out who did. Tell your mistress that. And the next time she wants to talk to me, she doesn’t have to send some thug to shake me down. It’s beneath her.”

While that was probably a little harsher than it had to be, I didn’t think I deserved the wide-eyed look of disbelief the vampire shot me before he scurried away into the night. 

When he was gone, I sagged a little against the wall. I touched my nose gingerly. It didn’t feel broken, a miracle of miracles, but it hurt a  _ lot. _ I groaned when my hand came away wet with blood.  _ Hell’s bells. _

I wiped my nose as best I could with my duster sleeve (gross, but at least it’s black) and made my way to McAnally’s. I’d left the apartment to get a steak sandwich, and by God, I was going to get one, random vampire assault or not.

I must have looked like a wreck, but no one batted an eye. The crowd at McAnally’s wasn’t  _ used _ to violence, per se, but we were used to not asking questions.

I placed my order and slunk over to a free corner table when it was ready. I usually sat at the bar, but I needed to brood, and I couldn’t do that properly unless I was at a table.

So, Bianca thought I was the killer. That was sobering for a number of reasons. Sure, Morgan thought I was guilty, but Morgan thought I was guilty of everything. If someone I’d never  _ met _ thought I was guilty,  _ and _ knew that I had the magical oomph to pull the murders off (allegedly), that was something else.

I don’t want to say that I’d made a name for myself, but my side gig of finding things for people had kind of taken off. I’d come up against some pretty nasty stuff in the last year or so, mostly from word of mouth stuff. It wasn’t common knowledge, but if you came across something weird in Chicago, there was a distinct chance that my name would be mentioned as a method of ridding yourself of said weird thing.

And, dammit, this was one of those times when I wished I had some more wizard contacts to call on. Bob told me that I had an unusual amount of strength for someone my age, magically speaking, and since my training had started earlier than most, I had more of that, too. Bob was great for giving me facts about that kind of thing, but he wasn’t so great at telling me what it would  _ mean. _ I’d have asked Mort, but Mort got nervous any time I mentioned my level of power, and Mort and I weren’t really that kind of friends. I couldn’t go to him about insecurities, and forget mentioning that word was getting around. Mort lived a quiet life, just like he liked it, and he couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

I just hadn’t realized that rumors about me had gotten so  _ detailed. _ Who was watching me so closely? Had I gotten so interesting that people were talking about me even after I’d helped someone?

More importantly, was whatever chatter about me enough to make the White Council think I’d become capable of murder at all, much less on this power scale?  _ That _ was a scary thought.

I didn’t feel like I’d made any progress on the case by the time I had finished my dinner and two of Mac’s ales. I toyed with the idea of staying but ultimately decided to go home. I wasn’t getting anywhere by sitting there and digging myself deeper and deeper into paranoia. I got up, paid Mac about triple what I owed him, to which he nodded, and walked out.

When I stepped outside, the air had become thick and heavy with the promise of another storm. I frowned up at the sky, then shoved my hands deep into my duster pockets made my way down the sidewalk. I was going the opposite way of my apartment, but I had a stop to make.

* * *

It only took about ten minutes of walking to get to where a man named Dave typically hung out at. Dave would have been a behemoth of a man in another life, I was sure. He wasn’t quite as tall as I was, but he came close. Drug use and lack of regular meals made him rail-thin, though, so he came off as more creepy and spindly than big. Dave was an all right looking guy with broad features and dark, shaggy hair, and he did his best to fight the (non-literal) demons that plagued him to try to be a good guy.

Dave was also “in the know” about the world of the supernatural. As in the know as someone with as many screws loose as Dave has can be, anyway.

When I got to the overpass Dave tended to hole up under, it looked the same as it had the last time I’d been there. There was a tent, and an area just outside of it that was clearly a fire pit with some logs and milk crates to sit on arranged around the pit. We were surrounded by concrete and grime and litter, but it did feel kind of homey.

I made sure to make a lot of noise as I approached. Dave was a war veteran, and surprising him was likely to either end with me on my back or send him into a vicious flashback. So I kicked rocks, shuffled my feet, and made as much noise as possible without breaking into song as I walked up to Dave’s tent. It was a nice one, with thick walls, zippered panels for windows, and a padded floor.

I should know. I got it for him for his birthday.

There was a rustling, shifting noise and the walls of the tent billowed with movement from the inside. One of the windows unzipped about two inches and a grey, bloodshot eye came into view.

I held my hands out to the sides and smiled a little. “Hiya, Dave.”

“Dresden?” he rasped, and I wondered how long it had been since he’d spoken out loud.

“It’s me, buddy.”

“Prove it,” he said firmly.

“How would you like me to do that?” I asked, my tone easygoing.

His grey eye narrowed, which boded well for my mission. It looked like he was mostly sober and lucid, anyway. “Blood,” he snapped. “And show me the light.”

I nodded. Blood wasn’t a fool-proof method of proving that someone wasn’t a supernatural being, but it was as close as Dave was going to be able to get, especially since he didn’t have a threshold to defend him. Like I said, Dave’s crazy, not stupid.

I pulled out a pocket knife that I kept in my jeans pocket, moving incredibly slowly to show Dave every move, and used the very tip of the knife to put a shallow cut on my forearm, just enough to draw a few drops of blood. I glanced at the tent, and Dave’s eye was glued to my arm, narrowing and widening alternately. I couldn’t tell if it was a regular twitch or a suspicious twitch.

I saw Dave give a nod in the affirmative, so I pulled a handkerchief out of my duster pocket and wrapped it around my arm. The cut wasn’t deep enough to really drip any blood, so I just knotted the handkerchief and pulled my duster sleeve back down.

Then I tugged my mother’s pentacle amulet out of my t-shirt and sent the tiniest bit of will through it to set it to glowing for the second time that night. Dave’s eyes widened appreciatively (crazy or no,  _ everyone _ loves magic), then crinkled in what I knew was a smile even though I couldn’t see the rest of his face.

There was more rustling, then the big zipper of the tent door slid open and Dave unfolded himself out. He was dressed in nondescript grey and brown clothes, hard to identify and covered in a thick layer of dust.

His smile, though, was wide and genuine. “Dresden!”

I felt my own grin spread across my face. “Hi, Dave. Lookin’ good!”

In a moment of increasingly rare lucidity, Dave rolled his eyes. “Liar, but I like it. Come on, have a seat, stay a while!”

We sat, me on a milk crate and Dave on a log, and I listened to Dave regale me with stories about the streets these days.

When you’re homeless, you’re part of a community. A desperate, shitty community, but a community nonetheless. I met Dave on a night when it was too cold to reasonably be out at night. He traded two hot dogs from a nearby stand for a night in the Beetle with me (nothing untoward, get your mind out of the gutter, Dave’s straight as an arrow). It was a solid start to a solid friendship, as solid a friendship as two people like Dave and I can have.

Dave knew just enough about the supernatural to keep an eye out for anything strange or dangerous. I think he probably had some middling talent at some point, before the trauma of battle and the dubious therapy that drug use offered obliterated it. Now, he can sense just a little bit more than your average mortal. When he thinks it’s really bad, he finds a way to track me down and alert me.

I let him wind down with his stories before I sat forward and clasped my hands together between my knees. “Got a question for you, buddy,” I said, soft and earnest.

Dave perked up like a happy puppy. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Heard anything weird lately? Maybe somebody or something that you saw, or that someone saw, that you didn’t like? Bad aura, maybe, or just someone who gave you the chills?”

The change in Dave was subtle but distinct. His shoulders tightened and his head ducked down a little. His eyes clouded over with fear and anger, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me. He was suddenly hunched over, defensive

I frowned. “... Dave?”

“The Shadowman,” he whispered.

“The Shadowman?”  _ A bad guy name I can get behind. _

“He comes around, or he sends people around. No, no, he sends them, can’t see him. Stays in the shadows.  _ Made _ of shadows. Sells the ThreeEye.”

I frowned harder. I’d heard of ThreeEye, and had fervently hoped it wasn’t real. I’d been reading up on it, though, because it was starting to horn in on Marcone’s territory, and I’d had a feeling it was only going to be a matter of time before I was asked to look into it. Tommy Tomm’s murder had taken place before I’d had a chance, but I’d only gotten reports of the drug that made it sound legit. Which was bad in  _ so many ways. _

“You haven’t been messing with that shit, have you?” I asked, my voice harsher than I intended. If ThreeEye really did open up the Sight, it would really mess someone up, could send someone with an untrained mind around the bend. Dave was already halfway there.

He frowned back at me.  _ “No, _ are you  _ nuts? _ That stuff has a bad aura.” He waved his hand around dismissively. “Like Shadowman. No, sir, not for me. Sticking with good old regular drugs for me.”

I thought that over. If Dave thought it had a bad aura, the stuff really was bad news. “Any mention of Marcone in connection to this Shadowman?”

Dave shrugged, a twitchy, nervous gesture. “Some of Marcone’s dealers are getting nervous. Think he’s gonna get mad when he finds out about ThreeEye. Think he already has, definitely already has, the man is a ghost, a spirit. A  _ spirit, _ Dresden.”

I nodded carefully, humoring Dave. “What else?”

“One of Shadowman’s guys, a new guy, a  _ stupid _ guy, said he thought Shadowman might go after Marcone. Try to get a foothold on the business.  _ Stupid, _ bragging about it, Marcone is a  _ ghost, _ he’s gonna  _ hear it-” _

Dave continued to rant, but I tuned him out as my eyebrows went up in surprise. Shadowman had killed Tommy Tomm? Was this… Was this all about drugs? The Shadowman had  _ murdered _ two people for  _ drugs? _ Stars and stones, Marcone was going to flip a gasket when he found out. If that even was the truth. I had no way of knowing for sure, really. Not until I tracked down the Shadowman and did a little snooping.

“Dave,” I interrupted his rant, which had been winding down in the first place. “Does anyone know where Shadowman operates?”

Dave shook his head. “No, no, no. Keeps it all very secret, hush-hush, hurt you if you find him. He’ll hurt you, Harry.” Dave’s eyes glazed over a little. “He’ll take you to the brink of death, wizard, and only by the grace of a need greater than his own for power will you be saved.”

I blinked. “What?” When Dave just shrugged, I sighed. “When’s the last time you ate, bud?”

Another shrug, but his eyes focused on me intently. I pulled out my wallet and pulled out a couple of twenties before reaching over and tucking them into the front pocket of Dave’s jacket. Then I stood, putting my wallet back and stretching a little.

“Go to Mac’s,” I said firmly. “Get some food in you, I already paid for a couple of sandwiches for you up there, just remind him that I sent you.” I pointed at the pocket where I’d stashed the cash, where Dave’s hand was already patting lovingly. “And you be safe, all right? Get a new toothbrush, we both know you need one.”

Dave grinned, his teeth white and straight. “All right, Dresden, you big softy.”

“Don’t go telling anyone,” I said with an answering smile. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

* * *

When I got home a few hours later, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus, then reversed over again for good measure. My face hurt where the Red Court’s lackey had smashed me into the wall, and I was tired and sore and a little cold. I just wanted to sleep for a year.

“Bob,” I said stiffly as I pulled my duster off and hung it on the hooks I’d installed by the doors. “Wake up. We have work to do.”

The lights in Bob’s eyes blinked on quickly, eagerly. I realized that he’d probably been a little worried since I’d been out for so long. “Boss! Where have you been? What took so long? What happened to your  _ face?” _

I winced. “Is it that bad? Dave didn’t say anything.”

“Dave probably thought he was hallucinating,” Bob says primly. “Or he didn’t want to make you feel bad. You look like hell, boss.”

I shrugged and made my way into the kitchen. “How confident are you about that spell to sense dark magic?”

“Eh, so-so?” Bob said, somehow giving the impression of waving his hand side-to-side in the air. “It’ll probably work, but it won’t be exact.”

“What kind of radius do you think we’re working with?”

“A mile? Maybe half a mile, if we’re lucky.”

I sighed. That was a bigger area than I wanted to be working with, especially if Shadowman was working from a suburb. But it was probably the best I was going to get, especially without more time to refine Bob’s spell. I  _ really _ didn’t want to take more time. More time before catching the bastard meant the potential of more bodies, and I didn’t want to take the risk. I’d do legwork all day as long as no one else died.

I took a deep breath and braced myself against the counter. “Okay. Let’s do the spell. Toot-toot found a few places for me that he and his friends think might have some black magic flying around, so we’ll start there. We’ll narrow it down, then I’ll go out tomorrow afternoon… Well,” I amended, glancing at the old wind-up clock on the wall,  _ “This _ afternoon to do some investigating.”

“You gonna sleep sometime in there? Maybe get some ice for that face?” Bob asked dryly.

I shrugged. “Let’s just… See where the night takes us.”


	3. Storms

That afternoon, after several hours of sleep, a shower, a handful of Advil (doubly needed after Bob figured out that the murder had used storms to get the power he’d needed to murder Tommy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton), and with a list of possible locations of dark magical activity, I set off to find and confront the Shadowman.

* * *

Victor Sells’ house was… Nice. Nicer than a black magic asshole like my friend Vic deserved, anyway. Lake Providence wasn’t a cheap place to have a house, especially a  _ vacation home, _ as this so clearly was. Ol’ Vicky must have been making good money. The house  _ screamed _ upper middle class and it was neatly kept.

The sight of it made me sick.

Part of the spell that Bob and I had cobbled together was that I was more in-tune with the part of me that could sense magic, sense intent. The malice, danger, and pure  _ hatred _ that was pouring off of the house were all enough to make my stomach twist in discomfort. I hated it. I wanted to burn it to the ground and salt the earth. I wanted to purify the land within an inch of its life, but it would never have been enough. Evil like that doesn’t fade easy.

There was also the power.

I will always be ashamed to admit it, but when I stood there in front of the Shadowman’s house, Victor Sells’ vacation home, I  _ wanted _ that power.

It was just for a moment, but I  _ wanted _ it. I had spent so, so long trying to play by someone else’s rules when I’d never seen a rulebook. I’d been dodging the White Council, trying to keep my head down. I’d held myself back from killing Justin point-black because I knew that someone would come soon, someone would find out what I’d done and punish me for it, no matter how richly deserved Justin’s death at my hand would have been. I had never made myself one of those Endless Purses, I’d never used my powers to get myself a home, a car, money, a friend, or a partner. I had been so good.

And what did I have to show for it?

As good as I had been, it hadn’t been until I’d been a little less than good, until I’d bent a little, that someone finally took notice and told me I was worth something, took care of me a little. Signing on with Marcone may have well gotten me condemned by people I’d thought I’d been able to call my good friends, may have gotten the White Council to look even further down their noses at me, but it also got me an apartment, someone besides myself to fix my car, and groceries in the cabinets. Marcone respected my boundaries (probably the first person  _ ever _ to do so), told me that I was special, that I was worth the work and the money required to get me on his payroll, and  _ listened _ when I talked. Hell, he’d never interrupted one of my rants about magic, even, and I knew they could get pretty long.

So why the hell should I be good now?

I could get rid of Victor Sells right now. I could cream him. He was powerful, sure, but I was better,  _ and _ I’d had training. Not just any training, either, but I’d been trained by a  _ spirit of intellect. _ Bob knew more about magic than anyone human would ever be able to remember. I’d have Victor Sells by the balls. I could kill him outright, and even if the Council tried to come after me, if I took this power I could feel coming off of this house, this den of ill intent, they wouldn’t have a prayer of touching me.  _ Especially _ if I could still hide behind Marcone’s name.

And  _ Marcone. _ He thought I was useful now? Hell, I’d be able to lay waste to those who would oppose him. The only enemies he’d ever had would gladly smile and kiss his shoes in his presence if I had this kind of power. I’d be able to repay him for what he’d given me, even if he didn’t realize that I was in his debt.

I could change the world with this kind of power. Without the restraints I’d put on myself to check myself, hell, I could do  _ anything. _ The thought was intoxicating, and I  _ wanted it. _

Which, of course, was why I couldn’t have it.

Years ago, just after I’d settled in Chicago, Bob and I had made a rule.  _ If it sounds too good, if it sounds perfect, put it away. _ Magic comes at a price, always, and sometimes that price is a wizard’s soul.

I could have taken that power and shaped the world to what I wanted it to be, but that wasn’t right. That wasn’t what magic was for. Magic was for helping people, for improving the world, not ruling it with an iron fist. It wasn’t for taking away someone’s right to free will. It wasn’t about forcing humanity to be the way  _ I _ thought they should be. No, magic was for more than that, and somehow less than that at the same time.

Magic was better than that, so I had to be better, too.

So it wasn’t because of the White Council that I shook off the dark, seductive thoughts that almost overwhelmed me, or because of their Laws. It was because it was the right thing to do. I loved magic too much to pervert it like that, and I was done letting Victor Sells do just that.

I walked into the Sells’ house to confront the Shadowman because it was the goddamn right thing to do.

* * *

As I was dangling from the balcony railing in Victor’s house, a demon on the level above me (who was probably going to eat me as soon as he was done chomping on Victor) and about a dozen scorpions the size of  _ horses _ on the level below me (who were probably going to eat me as soon as my grip failed and sent me hurtling down into their depths), I wondered who was gonna get Bob when I died. I hoped in a dim, dizzy sort of way (I’d been shot a few times by the random naked couple and there was more smoke than oxygen in the house at this point, cut me a break) that whoever it was wouldn’t destroy him. He was my only real friend.

There was a shattering of glass, and I’d never be sure how I’d heard it over the din that was the house burning down, Victor finally pulling the demon down over the railing quite noisily a few feet from me, and the scorpions clicking and clacking in surprise and glee at their new bounty. But it did catch my attention, so I turned to see… Well, I turned to  _ hallucinate _ Hendricks coming into the house, a thick broadsword in one hand and a small automatic handgun in the other.

My hallucination mowed through the scorpions with the sword and gun, moving with precise, sure movements that I’d come to heavily associate with Marcone and any of his men. I watched blearily as he cleared the room, stopped briefly on the scraps of Victor Sells’ body that were left, then his gaze swept up to me. He said something, something I couldn’t hear, and then my imagination produced Marcone, dressed in some sort of battle getup instead of his normal sharp suit. I realized that Hendricks, too, was dressed strangely, and it occurred to me that maybe this wasn’t a hallucination.

Unfortunately, precisely one moment after that nifty little revelation, my body decided that consciousness was for the birds, and I passed out before I knew whether or not Hendricks got there in time to catch me.

* * *

_ Well, _ was my first thought upon waking up,  _ that went well. _

I didn’t bother opening my eyes yet. Instead, I tried to take stock of myself by feel. I felt a little floaty and nauseous, which meant I was on pretty heavy-duty painkillers. There was a sort of tight, restricted feeling around my right thigh, my right bicep, and my abdomen, which meant someone had bandaged the wounds I’d managed to sustain. I was horizontal, lying on something ridiculously soft and silky. Since it in no way resembled the way my own bed felt, with my jersey cotton sheets and mostly flat pillow, it meant that I was probably at Marcone’s.

I finally opened my eyes and blinked until I could see clearly. The ceiling was soft white, and when I finally turned my head enough to see, so was the rest of the room. The furniture was made of dark woods and clean lines. I was on a bed (ha, called it) covered in a dark green comforter. The sheets appeared to be the same color, as was the pillow beneath my head. There was an IV stand with a clear bag hanging from the hook, the tube looping down out of my sight and coming back up to the needle in my arm, which was laid straight above the blankets.

Seated next to the bed was John himself. He was sitting in a cushioned, presumably rather comfortable chair. He was reading over a piece of paper, holding a pen in his other hand, and the file the paper had apparently come from was sitting in his lap. He looked… Rumpled, tired, maybe. He was definitely  _ John _ right now, wearing a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of black sweats.

“Hey,” I croaked. “How’d I do, coach?”

John’s head whipped up and his piercing green eyes took me in for one, two silent beats before he carefully laid the paper he’d been holding aside on the floor and stood to come to the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, making sure not to jostle my IV, and looked down at me, considering.

“Nathan got suspicious,” he said finally, after a long pause that I was too tired and fuzzy-headed to break, “when Lawrence, a lower-level member of the security team, got too interested in your current assignment. He came to me with his concerns, and I allowed him to follow up on them. And isn’t it astonishing that when he came back to me, it was with a report that you had gone  _ alone _ to fight a  _ warlock _ with  _ immeasurable power?” _

I winced a little, gave my sluggish brain a second to catch up and process, then tried to give a careless grin. I’m sure it came out as more of a grimace, especially since it felt like my lip was split. “Uh, you should see the other guy?”

John’s face shifted into resignation, and I realized that he was more liable to show emotion when it was just the two of us than literally any other time. “Oh, I did. Mr. Sells is quite dead, and you were nearly gone with him.”

If there’s one thing John despises, it’s waste. I nearly  _ wasted _ myself on dying that day, so I could kind of see why his words were so stiff, formal.

“Sorry,” I rasped. “Didn’t see another way.”

John sighed. “You didn’t think that maybe picking up a phone and  _ calling me _ would have been a good idea?”

I blinked. Actually, no, I hadn’t thought that. That… Wasn’t really the way this whole thing worked. Marcone came to me with a problem, I figured out a way to fix it, and I gave him that information. Or he came to me with a question, and if I didn’t know the answer right away, I’d  _ find _ the answer and give it to him. It was always him coming to me. It had never occurred to me that it could work the other way around, that if I found myself in over my head I could ask him for help.

“Sorry,” I said again, more sincere this time.

He shook his head, but something in him seemed to relax a little. “It all worked out in the end. Mr. Sells was the seller of the ThreeEye, which I’m sure you deduced, and as I said, he’s quite dead. The… Demon, I assume? It was killed by the scorpion constructs, and whatever it didn’t kill of them Nathan took care of. The house burned quite thoroughly, but I’ll need your help to  make sure that any remaining traces of ThreeEye are destroyed, as well.”

I nodded. “It’ll take me a minute,” I said, gesturing limply with my hand to my prone self, “but I can do that.”

John rested a calloused hand on my arm, sending a tingling sort of warmth up from the point of contact through my arm and chest. “You’re going to rest first,” he said firmly. “I have the site well-guarded. It will keep until you’re restored.”

I nodded, my eyes already starting to droop. “Anything else?”

John hesitated, which was unusual enough that it woke me back up. “When you’re feeling up to it, I’d like you to explain The Accords to me in depth.”

I frowned a little. “Uh. I don’t know a  _ whole _ lot about them, but I can probably scrounge up a copy of them somewhere?”

He nodded crisply. “Good. I want it.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, I took the initiative. “Uh, okay. I’ll bite. Why?”

He turned to look at me again, and something burning in those green eyes set my heart to beating faster in my chest. Something deep inside me, something that was long-neglected and not well-examined, bloomed and warmed in my chest.

“Harry,” John said, voice low and hot with intent, “I do not appreciate organizations that would even  _ consider _ the death penalty for a child. I do not appreciate organizations that would send agents to threaten you, especially because you are part of my own organization. And I especially do not appreciate organizations like those being in our city, walking among our people. I want them out.”

He leaned forward a little, every line in his body screaming of caged strength and fury. His green eyes glowed, and if I hadn’t been so exhausted and drugged up, I would have been wildly turned on.

“I want them out,” he said sharply, “but I lack the power to go after them directly and with force. So I need a copy of the Accords so I can find a way to go after them in their court.”

There was a lot to parse out there, but I managed it. Barely. “John,” I said, my voice still rough with disuse, “what are you going to do?”

He smiled, and it was his shark’s smile. His boardroom “I’ve got you where I want you” smile. A smile that made most men’s blood run cold, but had always inexplicably made my own run hot.

“Why, Harry, I’m going to oppose them, of course.”

“You… You can really only do that by filing a sanction against them,” I said hesitantly.

He nodded. “I know.”

“And… You can only do that if you’re a Signatory,” I continued.

“I know.”

I blinked. “John, no vanilla mortal has ever been a signatory of the Accords.”

Another predatory grin. “I’m quite aware.”

“That’s…” I shook my head. “I’m not saying it can’t be done, but it’s going to take a  _ lot. _ A lot of schmoozing, probably some bribery, you’re going to owe some favors to some very powerful people if you do this, John. Why? Is it even worth it?”

He stared at me for another beat, then said firmly, “I do not appreciate that someone would feel secure enough to come here and threaten you, Harry, right under my nose. I will have it handled before I let it continue.”

I blinked. That… Well, that made it sound like it wasn’t about children, or power, or about Chicago at all. That… That kind of made it sound like this whole idea was about  _ me, _ about what the White Council had done to  _ me. _

_ “John-” _

“I want that copy of the Accords, Harry,” he said, his voice gentler now. “I will not stand for this. Will you help me?”

I thought about it for a moment, because John didn’t appreciate answers too quickly given, and because it bore thinking about.

I could have thought of a hundred things. All of the interactions we’d had, the meetings about magic, the dinner with Russo, the classes, our first encounter with one another. I could have thought about the mob, how Marcone wasn’t  _ actually _ a very good person, but he’d always been good and fair to me. I could have thought about my paycheck, my apartment, my clothes, or my car.

But what I thought about was the moment when I’d considered taking the wealth of dark power that the Sells house had offered. In that moment, what I’d really thought about using the power for wasn’t myself. It was for  _ John. _

_ Okay, so that little obsession goes both ways. Good to know. _

“Okay,” I said solemnly. “I’ll help you.”

John’s shark smile widened considerably.


End file.
